MIKE SCHIEDEMAN
Creation
~~~~~~~~
The act of creation was indeed a matter
Of substance and no mean consequence.
Let there be light and there was.
The first phases earned scarcely a mention,
Seven phrases. Adam, God's masterpiece
Was ushered in with a word.
Man's striving ever since has spoken volumes.
As man peered into darkness,
Into his own darkness he was petrified.
He has struggled ever since like the devil.
God showed rare kindness when
He bestowed on his kin, a precious flint-stone.
We did not need to steal heaven's fires
Yet I can appreciate the panic of Prometheus.
Better to take fire in a bid for independence.
Beware the messenger bearing gifts
He demands our subservience.
Jehovah proved not, an unforgiving God.
He was only very severe.
Very humanly, he was jealous of his creation.
He granted us such a short life span;
Barely time to gain some perfection.
Zeus among others, must have been a ripe cynic
To punish his kindred spirits so.
When Jehovah smote Job, left him writhing,
We learned that though committed to ceaseless trial,
We are not condemned to an eternal punishment.
No one can be bound to a rock forever.
We might suffer the sickness unto death
But we were after all, given the gift of light.

BOGDAN TIGANOV
Barking Fate
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Invisible friend
Strangled wrestling
Intelligent shadows
Potting marbles
Visible friend
Sports and shorts
Cancelled throat
Lead happenings
Crispy heart
No throat
Punctured birthday
Dynamite news
Nuclear truth
Really lose
Costly moves
Married blues
Pensive looks
Nervy nights
Autumn jeers
Sunk holiday
Pensioner shoes
BOGDAN TIGANOV
Dead London Town
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I intend not to repress
You, you made me repress
Through drawn out boredom.
In dead London town
I repressed the savage.
I bare my teeth at night
Like the tyrant hero Vlad Dracula
Restless to dig my claws
Into your sorry flesh.
Now forgive my London cage
Spit from a fly's empire.
How I hate idiotic habits,
Rituals defying small individualism
Repressing real ecstasy.
'I don't care' works once, block,
London's air locks, its rain pulls faces.
BOGDAN TIGANOV
Our Moments
~~~~~~~~~~~
Our moments of unspoken intimacy
Were important to us
But do you ever ask me
'Bout the foreigner's feelings?
Mistakes, apologies that I've made.
I now know why you doubt yourself.
Do we deserve a heaven and hell
For our advanced thoughts?
I am not about to pretend (false civilisation)
And ask your mother's questions.
A kiss on the cheek, new year's kiss,
A steadying touch, kind words,
Some of our better friends
Hug then pull the rug
But how do you cope?
You feel awful and that tortures us.
BOGDAN TIGANOV
Real Writer
~~~~~~~~~~~
Real writer loses.
Loses money, loses heart,
What a loose light
Writing by candlelight.
The real writer bleeds.
Bleeds work, solitary bleeding.
You say you're that type,
The type losing blood.
Dear, darling writer,
His visits end in argument.
Words, unfinished symphonies,
Realist vision dragging, pushing
Him the real writer at a loss
Freed from honorary sitting.
Lucky peasant, he's a pleasant drag.
BOGDAN TIGANOV
Shut Your Mouth
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He shuts his mouth
With a soundless shiver
As if to apologise for life.
He will stay closed
Locked in guilty neurosis.
He is wholly capable
Of snuffing a pillow.
In preference, though,
His life is a languid apology
For that closed mouth of his,
Shut by a frightened light.
Yes, his friends are confident
And he loves their success.
Days of hunger crumpled,
Light matter of spring migration.
'Twas his annoyed thoughts
That kept you from knowing
The heart behind his dreams
Serrated by life's cruel regrets.
BOGDAN TIGANOV
What poem?
~~~~~~~~~
Send you a heavenly poem
To lift your mind from this world,
What world?
I fell out with God
When she refused to see our lives,
And what lives?
Join me in my search for purpose
For your sins are normalised.
When you see God leave!
Your woes never ceased to answer
My unmasked question of poetry.
Poetry is cowardly and useless!
JANET I. BUCK
Licenses of 90+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Summer's dirt is a dry birthday cake.
With licenses of 90+,
you drag the hose along the curb.
Dressed in aged translucent skin,
wispy as that pastry phyllo wrapped
around those crushed pecans.
Skimpy, checkered boxer shorts,
their billows pregnant with the air,
make you laugh that itchy chortle,
raise the eyebrows rolling by.
I wonder from my filthy car
sitting at a nearby light
(its red just teasing me to run),
if I should quit my 9-5
and help you water daffodils.
Their lanky stalks, a perfect mirror
of your legs, mostly husk,
their yellow trumpets almost straw
minding nature's savagery,
its winding toward oblivion.
From the house, its shingles
thick as fingernails that grow for years
then suddenly return to flesh,
your wife is waving flabby arms,
reminding you to cut the grass.
Its patches brown and weathered now --
puzzle pieces dogs have chewed
on tables of a waiting tomb.
The mower sits, a Pharaoh
full of rust and grit,
a book of action dwelling
on the chapters torn --
what blisses it has bagged and cast
in duty's putrid jewelry box.
"One last piss on pending grave"
is all you cough in firm retort.
Water dribbles from your spout
like sprayed saliva on a word.
JANET I. BUCK
Soliloquy to Bitter Sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I have been breaking silence these twenty-three years
and have hardly made a rent in it."
Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)
I drop on tea cup knee at the lip of your grave,
its stone and sand, its vacancy,
amid sharp emerald blades of grass.
My heart these days, a lost screw
looking for its proper hole.
What bend should rivers fist and take?
Mother whom I've never known --
speak like suns through mucus under puffy lids.
The fingers of my tears are sore
from running up and down the keys.
You are gone, but Father is alive and here,
pacing tunnels of his grief,
hugging like he's swatting flies,
loving from behind thick doors
with dead bolts set above the knobs
my sweating palms have tried to turn.
A part of me is longing to retort to rock,
gather chisels, hone a love
without a dead museum chill.
Soliloquies are lonely forms;
paper burns to whiskey's torch.
A listen wreath is all I ask.
Each time I pour, each time I serve
another meal, I water flowers
shrinking in their chosen paths.
My tarnished temples,
lathered in their silver streaks,
curl themselves around his ear,
beg for conches of the sea
to leave a pearl beside the shrugs.
Our instruments have drying reeds.
Moments seem like ash to tap,
sequins falling from a dress.
In dreams, I wrote a different score.
Soon these seeds will ride the wind.
Task of music sits before this orchestra.
Hours grow late around this waste.
JANET I. BUCK
The Real Stradivarius
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another brunch of surly nerves.
Liquor sets the basic rules.
It's 10 a.m. A bottle's cork
assumes its throne of porous wood.
All my wishful clamoring,
a kitten at a Brillo screen.
I cook to please and rinse the plates,
tossing scraps of batter burned,
disappointment's petrie dish.
My stomach growls, but not for food.
Our fences higher than our kites.
Paper you will never read
is coveting a crushed pecan.
Combine the ether with the chill
and all my love just hits the road.
It's packing time inside the dream
and I hear music in the wind.
I listen for the gravel spit,
rinse your teeth marks from my neck,
study bruises years have gathered
sadly like bouquets of flowers.
My tires full of angry air I wish were just
a summer breeze that didn't cannon heritage.
Emotion's awkward overture,
a sand dune blowing in your eyes.
Perhaps we are an instrument
I haven't tuned and didn't play,
but I am tired and soaked in tears
that never found receptacles.
My heart must pound, direct its pulse,
in pastures where amour refracts,
where green is more than shades of jealous,
chilly jade of dollar bills, musty in their lethargies.
The real Stradivarius is miles away in cherry pies
with parents who have sorted pits,
shred their rinds and reveled in
the moisture of a rocky sea.
Where cherishing is noisy doorbells
ringing in the darkest night
with slippers there to answer cries
from deep inside the wilderness.
JANET I. BUCK
The Echo of the End
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"These be
Three silent things:
The Falling snow ... the hour
Before the dawn ... the mouth of one
Just dead."
Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1914)
Women chat their mockeries.
Discuss their dull advantages,
applying them like salt on wound.
Whispering gossip as if.
As if it will ply accordions
of wrinkled cheeks, brittle
in their aching scores --
play a song, a better one.
Their ears perking
at the sound of slaughter.
Light as jockeys on a horse,
house keys jingle in a purse.
Out of sugared thunderheads,
comes lightening strike:
"Lucille, you know, is dying.
It's only a matter of time."
They crunch on crumbs
with quiet teeth.
Echoes of the end are near.
Gasps inside this utterance --
short stray threads on blankets
of their bosoms reeling from the facts.
Their passive grief, a bank acount.
Silence kicks remaining shins.
Sadness smears their fingerprints.
Too soon a check will bounce and spit
on hands that scribbled signatures.
A grave comes up like indigestion's evidence
spewed across a slippery floor.
Mouths slam shut on scissored hour.
I watch the bruises spread
across their knees, as if they're
blood bags of a prayer.
Pneumonia in their lungs like rain.
JANET I. BUCK
Red Noses
~~~~~~~~~
A row of red noses glitters in this dark.
Affected laughter like a plague.
Emotion's awkward overtures
fall in puddles of deaf ears.
With one weak hand,
I pour your exit happily,
a stream to rivers memorized.
The other scrubs the countertop
as if it bears the stain
of semen after rapes.
This fist of anger is my hurt.
Longing is a valve to close.
Rapping on the doors so locked
they could be prisons in disguise.
You hug me like you're swatting flies.
Clocks cough out the moment
shrunk and rolled in dung;
idle chatter, porous corks
sit reigning on their gilded thrones.
Depths untouched,
a palette full of drying paint.
I tell myself, again, again,
in sloughing chants of wishing sky,
as if I want the lie to end.
My family loves their alcohol,
but if we held a real race
between my need and bottles
of this borrowed bliss,
I would win and clavicles
of shoulder blades would rock my tears
as if they were a matter clique.
That they aren't hooked
and they aren't fried
and I'm not boned like day-old fish.
MOSHE BENARROCH
My Friend
~~~~~~~~~
I never wanted to be your enemy
I don't know how it happened
each time I reached out my hand
you thought I was going to beat you
all I wanted was to say hello
I still don't want to be your enemy
but each time you smile
I ask myself what are your intentions
if your smile is just trying
to make me give something you I don't have
We don't talk anymore
our words are masks
behind untrusting faces
words that should be comunication
have become weapons against the light.
MOSHE BENARROCH
Six Million
~~~~~~~~~~~
When we say 6 million
what do we mean?
We mean that six millions jews
according to the Nazi's definition
were killed,
anyone who had a a jewish great grandfather
could either be killed for being a jew
or be a Nazi if nobody knew
Do we accept the definition of the Nazis
for people that didn't want to be jew
And were they alive would be annoyed
if they were called jews.
So, now, even dead, their race and entity
was defined by their killers.
What does all this mean?
It means that science invented the idea
that Races exist
This was real Science in the nineteenth century
What next? Genetic extermination?
Genetic races? Hears about it already
the Jews have a specific Gene.
Which means?
People from a religion that accepts everyone
and has mixed with every nation on earth
was killed for being a scientific race.
Which also means?
That the Germans exterminated not only jews
but also their own people and race accusing them of being jews.
It means that scientific truth can lead to hell.
MOSHE BENARROCH
My Poems
~~~~~~~~
My poems don't open doors
they close them
Each door opened by the human race
has brought more atrocities
There are very long Saturdays
and wars that end in less than a week
I am tired of peace agreements
I just want to see less people dead
That's why I have closed the doors
to all the cemeteries
with my poems.
MOSHE BENARROCH
Israel
~~~~~~
This is the land of 2000 years dreams
that so many leave disgusted
while others die to get in
most feel uneasy and disappointed and uneven
and they can't point to the real reasons
so many expectations so many eyes
so many discussions into the night
as if a country is a living entity
that should become some kind of messiah
as if being a Jew among Jews weren't enough
or is something no Jew can cope with
or know what to do about
Arabs around becoming more and more Nazis
targeting the life of my grandmother and my children
as if every Jew held some kind of key to the mystery
of this land of these people that never live by the rules.
I took a walk on the quiet side
said God after his five o'clock tea
and there you are now
with a book to decipher forever.
MOSHE BENARROCH
Global Economy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I will work for peanuts
if you fire me
or I will set fire
to your house I see
now that you have made of me
a commodity
my work my life my wife my children
will be slave to you
and I will work for peanuts
like the monkey in your circus did
and my daughter if she's beautiful
she will whore for you
if she's not your houses she will clean
I will work for peanuts
if this is what you ask
you call this progress, realistic economy, the global village,
but it's just as always the rich against the poor
you win I loose
just give me some peanuts.
RICHARD SOREF
His Car
~~~~~~~
is a freedom machine, a killing machine,
a bedroom on wheels,
the holder of cups,
the room for a rage,
a luminous sensuous sculpture,
an object of lust,
a wistful face with almond eyes,
an angry guided projectile,
a guzzler, a trasher, an American.
RICHARD SOREF
love happens
~~~~~~~~~~~~
love was dormant, untouched,
unbidden at first,
then ignited, revealed,
examined by two--
two loves then flourished
as outlaw dreams
of consummation
hovered near.
so love turned forbidden,
strong and tensely wrong.
love, now injured, slips
into achy dark eclipse.
RICHARD SOREF
Quattro
~~~~~~~
The number of letters in "four"
expresses the meaning of the word.
This is a puzzle, a knot
within the language.
Four-letter words hold mystery
and power in their core. Rowdy ones
like "s**t" and "f**k" cry out
for editorial evisceration, although
"scum" and "slut" slide by untouched,
trailing marginal offense.
Gentle tones and harsher themes--
all are figured into fours.
A soft breeze tickles "harp" and "mist"
upon the landscape "view" of "pond",
while pundits ponder "good" and "love",
"evil" and "hate",
the inescapable quartet.
The deepest lake is finally "self",
a body slippery, changeable in aspect,
tangible yet elusive. Who can
fully fathom "self"
or "four" itself?
RICHARD SOREF
Hello again
~~~~~~~~~~~
dear diary, small spirit soaked in ink,
patient elf dwelling in these pages; you may
think me strange for monologueing in your home.
But I perform a sacred task.
I put truth in a time capsule
by inscribing unvarnished events
replete with emotion.
Diary, I sense your skepticism. You're thinking
that truth is harder to capture than a squirrel,
history is bogus, emotions are
tricky butterflies. What then are these notes?
Are they simply emphemeral songs
of a day's sunlight, storms, and shadows?
That may be all I know.
RICHARD SOREF
DeathWish Ten
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tonight I am weary, life-weary,
wanting release or oblivion perhaps.
Am I so jaded that tomorrow holds no
spark or spice, no reward for wakefulness?
O sleep, O peace, come to me now.
Now, with arms spread, I fall backwards
softly down into deep darkness
like a diver descending.
In this black state, will my willful mind
stop my heart?
No, no such easy exit exists. Instead, the darkness
fades to a dreamscape, a play-within-the-play
that lurches towards its denouement
until the unbidden sounds of another dawn intrude.
LISA ZARAN
(Untitled)
~~~~~~~~~~
When I die I want to come back
as a duck because ducks can fly
faster than cheetahs can run,
my teacher said.
Okay son, I nod and let you believe.
I let you believe in the flight of your heart.
After my father died,
I had his body cremated.
All that remained was a package
of sand (not dust) the size of a child's shoe box.
I paid cash for him
and buried him in
the back of a coat closet.
All my friends at school have grandpa's
that can talk, my son moans, closing the door.
And when you die, he tells a neighbor, full
of childhood wisdom. You turn into a box!
Oh God. Come, let me hold you
while I still can. While your heart
still sits in a cage. Already you've
spent some time with flight and
your youth has gotten stained.
LISA ZARAN
Anger Managment 101
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I came hoping to find reason
in the swell of voices. I found
instead, voices in the swell
of reason, unjustified and coarse,
angry just the same.
I am learning to manage my own
anger by taking this class. There
are ten of us, altogether. We are
all here, pretending to care. Sitting
in metal fold-up chairs, two rows,
facing our speaker. Each head
is a knuckle on a double barreled fist.
The profile of the man sitting next to me
is pretentious and brings to mind a sort
of imported redemption. He belongs here,
whereas, I do not.
The speaker, a former angry person himself,
reminds us, love is a verb not a feeling. I
already know this. I just happen to love
roughly, in spite of the pain.
Two hours remain until the end
of the class, six days until the next.
Twiddle thumbs, smile with a hint
of remorse, dig fingernails into palms,
stick with it. Convince self, you do not
belong in this room with these people,
these types of people. Tell self, next
time you fall, make sure and hit the ground.
LISA ZARAN
Sometimes Love Is As Perishable As Fruit
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
slipping down
a sour throat.
nothing more.
pity marks the day
i met you, hanging
by the cord
of your own tongue.
okay,
here is the issue:
i only wanted
to startle you with a kiss
buried deep
in your plump, peach skin,
not tow the line
of an orchard.
i only wanted
to taste the blend
of your sweet, round juices,
not bottle you up
or pit you against me.
i am sorry
if i've left you bruised
and clinging by a stem.
love is not precise,
but random.
you picked me
out of a dozen palms
and mine, though willing
was not in season.
LISA ZARAN
Windfall, unresolved
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
and then there are times....
when the casualties of love
fall all around our naked feet,
trembling.
after the arguement, as you lay
sleeping, i burned a hole in the
mattress to symbolize the gap
growing between us.
last night as you lay dreaming
i picked the lock that keeps
the dogs at bay. i watched
as they tore into your heart.
this, all imagination.
last night as you lay,
under a blanket of stars,
i looked for you.
last night as you lay,
under the assumption
that i too found sleep,
i could not find you.
WARD KELLEY
Inside Those Eyes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When future ages look back at this one,
who is peering out at them from here?
I'm afraid it's the poets. For everyone
else is busy looking at the present,
and it's only the foolish poets who are most
concerned about seeing their own souls
hundreds of years from now. This premise
is easy to prove: simply look back into
the 19th century and immediately you will
be confronted by the eyes of that era's poets . . .
gripping, pounding eyes, all peering back
at you, as though you yourself could give
them the answers they seek, the same odd
answers they already know, inside those eyes.
WARD KELLEY
The Oddities of Parts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is a part of me who wants
to sleep forever, balanced, one hopes,
by a part of me who wants eternal life.
There is a part of me who will love
you forever, a part of me who wants
to flee into the arms of several new
women. There are parts who will not
ever be reconciled to parts who never
complain. How can so much tragedy
occur to those of us who simply try
to exist in the breathing? Or how can
life be so exhilarating? There is a part
of me who wants to sleep forever,
punctuated by a part of me who wakes
up to give it all another chance to bring
reason or comprehension to my splits.
WARD KELLEY
Those Things Deep Within
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deep inside the heart of the soul
is a thing infallible, yet it seldom
speaks, for it knows we rarely obey
and never listen to its reason. Deep
inside this thing, inside its own heart,
is a thing immortal, something who
knows it will never die. It whispers
to the heart of your soul, but this
knowledge never succinctly makes
it all the way to the body's brain,
even though it's the very one thought to
which we would surely listen and believe.
WARD KELLEY
The Blame For Us
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who is there to blame for our
loneliness? God might head
the list, but gods have always been
blamed for every affliction known
to the human, and frankly they're
much too easy of a target. If gods
have reasons for our loneliness,
they will never be fathomed by
us. The better candidate for blame
would be our poor communication
apparatus, for no matter how hard we
try, we never succinctly convey
our desires to another, hampered
as we are, by our contrary and ever-
lasting refusal to honestly say what
it is we really want; if we ever do,
no one believes us, of course, since we all
know humans never truly confess to anything
WARD KELLEY
Longing
~~~~~~~
It is the longing for the indefinable
that forms into an invisible craft,
something like a sailboat or the lift
of a woman's eyebrow, that will at last
transport us into different chapters of
our lives, all layered, none with clear
beginnings or ends, to where we think
we will find a fulfillment to this odd
longing, yet we are only satiated for a day
or two, a moment in the book, before
off we sail again, or here she beckons
again, and we might even despair of
ever making sense of these desires, or
ever achieving a just completion, until
we near the end of our lives where, from
this vantage, we can look backwards to
encompass the whole of the story we were
writing and writing with this quill of longing,
and here we see a comprehension.

MIKE SCHIEDEMAN
Night Journey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even a sliver of a moon cuts the four corners
Of our souls. Women and youths show it most.
It scatters bright stars like shards even while
A tumult of cloud clothes our world of light.
The night remains the playground of the soul
Though we learn to slide over cultural rainbows.
Let twilight fall on my earliest consciousness
As mists and dust compound light and darkness.
Too soon we lose contact with the rootstock
Of everything. I grasp at rays with tough cords
Of illusion, dreams, warmth and creature comforts.
These entrap me when I should be wiser.
Despite lethe, let me embark on my night journey
Over and over like the boatman rowing forth and fro
Across the fabled Styx of the nether world or
On the surface of the deep until there was light.
Life is a night time journey even when greenness
Breathes perpetually, pulsing more profoundly
Than the course of blood through wild creatures.
I must see more, know better, confront,
Do battle, fight fatigue and temptation and accept
The specter and his scimitar not in excitement
But with awe. Let Dawn's promise persuade us
To keep rapport with each other a while longer.

A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda

Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A
place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since
the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means
that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative
user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.
Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede

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these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
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YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2001 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
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